Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Come in to . . . my office, please, Judy, and shut the door,” Sophie Massot said calmly.

  Judy shivered a little; had she found out? But there was nothing for it except to do as she was told. She lifted her chin and walked boldly into the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

  As soon as the door shut, Sophie Massot said, in a newly shaky voice, “Dear Judy, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Then she burst into tears.

  Judy rushed towards her. She felt a mixture of emotions, not all of them pleasant. So Sophie had fired Gregoire: good. And trusted her: better. And yet, as much as she loathed the woman, it was hard not to feel sympathy for somebody who was actually crying.

  “Sophie—don’t cry. Look, here’s a handkerchief.” She un-clipped her bag and drew forth one of her neat little squares, crisp white Irish cotton.

  “Thank you,” Sophie sobbed.

  Stop the goddamn crying, Judy thought fiercely. I don’t need to feel anything for you. She reminded herself that it was a knee-jerk reaction. Judy steeled her heart against further compassion. This woman was the reason, she believed, that Pierre had never married her, had always had to leave her every night; the reason Judy got little gifts on holidays, instead of his arms around her; the reason she spent Christmas by herself.

  “I’ve been so stupid,” Sophie said, gulping for air.

  Judy wasn’t about to disagree.

  “Sit down,” she said, pulling Gregoire’s chair out, solicitously.

  “Thank you.” Sophie dabbed at her eyes, struggling for, and achieving, a measure of control. She waved Judy to the Eames chair in front of the desk. “You too.”

  Judy sat, obediently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Sophie looked at her, with reddened eyes, but with a directness that made the younger woman uncomfortable.

  “Do you think I did wrong to fire Gregoire? You seemed devoted to him.”

  Judy paused. The baseball fan in her immediately tagged this a fastball, but Judy was ready for every pitch.

  “I believed he worked very hard. . . . I told you he was always in the office,” she said humbly. “And that’s true, but of course, I don’t know what he did there. I just handle PR.” She gave an expressive shrug. “From where I was sitting he seemed devoted to the company. Sophie . . . was I wrong? I trusted him.”

  She nodded. “So did I; I’ve been a fool.”

  Judy decided to gamble, again. She put her cropped head down, humbly, and summoned up a thickness in her throat.

  “But I’ve been working here for years. I should have seen it,” she said. “You’ll want my resignation. I’ll bring it up to your desk right away.”

  “Resignation? Oh, no, there’s no cause for that—that’s not what I meant,” Sophie said, quickly. “You were loyal—I admire loyalty.”

  “Has he been embezzling money?” Judy asked. She did not have to fake interest in that.

  Sophie sighed. “Nothing so dramatic. I made a few calls from my car before I got here today—calls I ought to have made months ago.” Judy saw the other woman flush with embarrassment. “First I rang my broker. Well, Pierre’s broker,” she added with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I never did much stock trading. . . .”

  Judy was almost relieved to find the black hatred bubble up in her again as Sophie spoke. The mention of the little things they shared together, husband and wife, hurt as much as the platinum wedding band on Sophie’s left hand. Stockbrokers, physicians, even a fax machine. She flashed on once seeing a fax she’d sent to Pierre at the château, printed off, in her in-tray; the computer lettering at the top saying Monsieur et Madame Massot. The pain, then, had been as keen as a knife. Now, it was just a dull ache. She hated Sophie for that, too; without Pierre, her heart had hardened.

  “It’s true, the company stock has risen nine percent. What I did not understand was that the sector has risen over twenty-five percent. It’s not a gain; it’s a large relative loss. My son’s inheritance has suffered.”

  Judy tried to look sympathetic. Poor young Massot heir, now only worth thirty million when it could have been fifty. That’ll break your heart every time, she thought.

  Sophie was making it easy.

  “My second call was to our human resources department. Do you have any idea how much Gregoire, and the other directors, were paying themselves?”

  Fascinated, Judy shook her head.

  “He took home a million a year,” she said. “So did every other one of them who sat there and presided over the decline of the House. And I asked about perks.”

  Judy had a sick feeling in her stomach. A million euros. Every year.

  “What perks?” she whispered.

  “Cars and drivers, twenty-four hours a day, all year long. Rides on private jets. Art—at company expense. Maids, a cook. For each of them.Vacations, for ‘reasearch.’ ”

  Sophie smiled bitterly. “Do you know of a large jewellery market in Mauritius, Judy?”

  Judy shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Nor do I. Why, the perks alone for each one of them came to a great deal more than your annual salary. Almost double it.”

  Judy breathed in, raggedly.

  “Are you all right?” Sophie asked, with concern.

  “I’m fine,” Judy managed, although her heart was thumping. “Fine . . .”

  She felt light-headed with sheer fury. Oh, so Lazard, and the useless shower of board directors who never showed their faces, never attended a show . . . they had gotten millions—perks worth double her salary. . . .

  Judy had worked, doggedly, for years—fifteen long years at this company—and what she had to show for it was a flat, a modest savings account, and a few good jewels: nothing. That was what her life was worth, apparently: nothing. It cost a lot of money to look this good. Judy’s salary went on memberships to the best gyms, chic outfits, the nicest bags, the must-have makeup, things that changed every season, cost the earth, and wound up fit only for donation to a charity shop.

  Style was costly.

  She thought of her longing for the senior vice presidency and a raise to two hundred, maybe two fifty. . . .

  How Gregoire Lazard must have laughed. Chump change, for a chump. And then he hadn’t even authorized it. Couldn’t be bothered to put down one stroke of the pen she had offered him.

  “Don’t worry, Judy,” Sophie said earnestly to her. “We are going to start afresh—change things round here. I know you—I trust you. I already reviewed your personnel records.”

  Judy experienced a fresh thrill of dislike. The thought of Sophie Massot combing through her files, checking up to see if she’d been a good girl. It was insupportable. She consoled herself with the fact that personnel would never have dared to include the most important detail: the love of Pierre Massot.

  And it had been love, she told herself defiantly; even if she had shared him, shared the sex of him, it had been love, a certain species of love. Passion. Something Mme Massot, she could instantly tell, knew nothing at all about.

  Gregoire, the directors, Sophie—Judy hated them all. She had been grubbing away for so many years, for nothing, while they lazed around with everything. It was indeed time for a change. It was time for Judy Dean to get something for herself, for once, a real slice of the action. She wasn’t in this for Sophie, or Gregoire, or any of them, not now. Judy was in it for herself.

  She smiled brightly. “I’m glad,” she said. “I think there are ways I can help.”

  “Two pound fifty,” the cabbie said.

  “Thank you.” Sophie felt guilty that it had been such a short trip. “Keep the change,” she said, handing him a five pound note.

  The man smiled at her as he drove off; she smiled after him. It was a gloriously sunny day in Oxford, and Sophie’s heart was soaring.Tom’s mobile was permanently set to his mailbox; her letters had received no reply. Well, she was not about to accept that as an answer. Now that she had ditched Gregoire, now that she was deter
mined to rescue House Massot, things would be much better; all that remained was to be reconciled with Tom.

  Sophie could not wait for him to make contact. Action, once you took it, was infectious, she decided; the morning after the confrontation with Gregoire, she had risen, totally determined, and booked herself a first-class return on the Eurostar. And a mere five-odd hours later, here she was, early afternoon in St. Aldate’s Street, outside the soaring beauty of Tom Tower, the gateway to Christ Church. Her only child’s present home.

  Sophie walked confidently through the stone archway and turned left up the stairs to the Porters’ Lodge. It was all so beautiful, and so quaint: little pigeonholes full of letters and leaflets, a cork board groaning under the weight of hundreds of fliers; she experienced a thrill of pride. For all that he was spoilt, and young, and impetuous, Tom was also intelligent; he had done this by himself, passed the exams, made the grades, won a place at what remained the greatest university in the world. And, as Tom had pointed out himself, Christ Church was its greatest college.

  He was a part of that. It was his own achievement. After a while, surely that native intelligence would out. With what she knew now—how Pierre’s handpicked successor had been running Massot into the ground—things had changed; even Tom would appreciate she’d had to take action.

  But by far the most important thing was that she would see him. Business or no business, her son was the love of her life, her joy, her world. At this moment, as her heels clicked gently on the old wooden boards of the lodge, Sophie could not have cared less about House Massot. She was about to knock on his door. See him. Hug him.

  “Yes, madam. May I help you?”

  “My name is Sophie Massot.” The porter looked at her politely; she saw the name didn’t register. Well, there were hundreds of students at this place. “My son is in the college. Tom Massot. I’ve come to visit him,” she said, proudly. “Could you direct me to his rooms?”

  “Massot . . .” He thumbed through a list, glanced at the pigeonholes. “There’s no Tom Massot at this college.”

  “What?” Sophie blinked. “Yes, there is. He’s my son,” she repeated.

  The porter shrugged. “I’m new here, just started. But his name’s not on the list. No pigeonhole—you can see for yourself.”

  Sophie spun around, looked down to the Ms: Macclesfield, Madden, Martindale, Mascot, Masters . . .

  There was no Massot. “Impossible,” she said firmly.

  “I’ll just call and check. One minute, please.”

  Sophie stood there, tapping her foot. Angry. Nervous. Something bad had happened; she knew instinctively she was not going to like it.

  The porter replaced the receiver. “Mrs. Massot,” he said, awkwardly. “Your son Tom left the college . . . he took rustication.”

  She paled. “They kicked him out?”

  “Oh no, it’s voluntary. A one-year leave of absence . . . he can return next year. He left last week.” A pause. “Maybe you could call him?” the man suggested, lamely. He seemed embarrassed, and on her behalf. Sophie drew herself up; she felt dazed.

  “Yes, I had better.” She smiled blankly. “Thank you.”

  The sun was still blazing as she left the college and stepped onto the street, but she felt empty. To cover herself, Sophie started walking up the hill.There was a taxi rank at the station. She fished out her mobile, dialled Tom’s number.

  A recorded message told her his mailbox was full. Then it cut her off.

  She dialled again, this time Celine, in Paris.

  “Celine—my son appears to have changed his mobile without telling me. Do what you can to hunt him down, will you?”

  “Yes, of course, Madame,” Celine said briskly. “I will find him.”

  Sophie hung up, feeling the dismay curling in the pit of her stomach. She doubted it. Tom was gone. And she had no idea where to find him.

  Chapter 20

  “It’s great to meet you.”

  Edgar Lowell shook Hugh’s hand with a firm grip. He nodded politely.

  “And my partners, Karl Epstein and Willoughby Strachan.”

  “How do you do,” Montfort replied.

  He was standing in the conference room of Lowell Epstein, one of America’s newest investment banks. Despite this fact, and the secondary fact that they operated out of Boston, instead of the centre of the world, New York, the room radiated confidence. It had cost a lot of money to bring antique oak panelling to the walls of these offices, located on the sixty-second floor of a brand-new skyscraper; the carpet was overlaid with an Aubusson rug; there was a Turner hanging in the corridor outside; the secretaries all wore Donna Karan; everywhere he turned there was the quiet, reassuring hush of money, and lots of it.

  “Where’s the head of your M&A department?” Montfort asked, once they had waved him to a seat. Mergers and acquisitions, the lifeblood of big Wall Street deals. House Massot would be both.

  “That’s Jake Feingold.”

  “Great guy.”

  “He’ll be along in just a moment.”

  “We wanted to take a few minutes to get to know you ourselves,” Lowell concluded.

  Montfort smiled thinly; he had not come here for chitchat.

  “It’s amazing to meet the Boy Wonder,” Karl Epstein said. “That’s what they call you, yes?”

  “The press can say foolish things,” Montfort agreed calmly.

  He hated that epithet. But it was better than the first, the Axe Man. The business press gossip columns had christened him that when he’d first arrived at Mayberry and had immediately laid off over 30 percent of the workforce. The company was insanely overmanned then, and he had not regretted it. No more had he regretted closing ten money-sucking stores.

  In time, of course, with greater success, they had expanded. He had created three times as many jobs as he had cut. That was natural market economics.

  It had not stopped him being hated.

  Even with the success, the new jobs, the publicity for British design, few outside his company regarded Hugh Montfort with any affection. He knew it, and did not care. The soubriquet Boy Wonder conveyed it exactly: a calculated mixture of admiration and contempt.

  “You know, apart from the financials, we think this is a perfect deal,” Edgar Lowell said. He was fifty, perhaps, a Boston Brahmin, pale skinned and weak chinned, no trace of the regional accent. “Massot is over, but perhaps you can make something of it. I used to buy Massot jewels for my wife.”

  “And Mayberry ones for your girlfriend,” Strachan cackled. He was fleshy, and Montfort had heard tales of dissipation—a paler version of Pete, then.

  “I am only interested in expanding our brand. This deal is about logistics and supply; Massot has them, we need them,” Montfort said coolly.

  “I’m sure we can structure something of interest to the shareholders,” Karl Epstein said. He was bookish, and the man Montfort preferred to deal with.

  “It needs to be more than of interest; it needs to be unmissable. There is only fifty-five percent floating out there. I need everyone. Every institution, fund manager, individual holder. I need them all.”

  Hugh Montfort held the eyes of all three of them.

  “There is no room for mistakes,” he said. “If your bank wants this business, you will be exposed; the press will be watching. The consequences of failure will be as bad for you as for us.”

  Willoughby Strachan felt himself begin to sweat. The limey was threatening them. It was a powerful threat, too. As a new bank, hoping to attract M&A business, they simply could not afford to fail in public. But the rewards of masterminding such a high-profile takeover . . .

  He thought of his personal stockholdings.

  Strachan was driven by the two gods of the market: fear and greed. The Englishman with the hard jaw and uncompromising manner apparently knew this.

  They were being played, and yet he could not, they would not, say no.

  “There won’t be any failures, Mr. Montfort,” he said, resenti
ng him. “Let me call our deal team in.”

  Hugh Montfort sat back against the burgundy leather of his chair.

  “What a good idea,” he said.

  The meetings took all day, and when he was finished, he went back to the hotel. The Ritz was the finest in the city and provided, amongst the many amenities of his splendid rooms, a comprehensive guidebook: entertainment choices in one of the oldest cities in America. He could have attended the theatre, concerts, a fine museum of the Revolutionary War, had he chosen to have his face rubbed in it. Or sports: Boston had prominent teams in basketball and baseball. His taxi’s radio had announced the presence of the New York Yankees at Fenway Park, and the callers were full of excitement and bile; it was one of the oldest rivalries in American sports.

  It might have tempted him under other circumstances. Hugh took frequent trips to the States on business, and he had, from long stays in hotels, begun to watch baseball; it seemed preferable to the news, which was depressing, and mostly, to him, irrelevant. He was rather surprised to find he loved the game. It was far faster than cricket, and very strategic.

  But he knew perfectly well he would not be watching a floodlit baseball diamond tonight.

  Tonight he was going to have a woman.

  Hugh inventoried his feelings, as he always did. Excitement, need, disgust. His conscience putting up its usual feeble struggle. You shouldn’t do it . . . you’re no better than Pete. This is beneath you . . . you’ll hate yourself tomorrow. . . .

  His body replying in kind, to every such objection. Yes—so what?

  Hugh grit his teeth and headed into the bathroom. He would shower and change; sometimes that diminished the urge.

  Not tonight, though. He enjoyed the sensations, but the temptation was too urgent. He was ashamed of himself, but made excuses: you fought it for so long . . . for weeks . . . you can’t help yourself . . . nobody’s perfect.

  He swathed himself in the voluminous white bathrobe they provided and removed his address book. The number for Boston was listed, like the rest of them, under a single name—Karen.